I shook my head and focused on the chill air, the way it made my nostrils freeze. This is what’s important. Where you are, not where you’ve been. Your past can’t hurt you unless you let it. I’d learned a lot in the last few years at Islington. The most important, though, was how to keep moving forward.
There was something about winter dusk that made Islington look like an entirely different beast. Color seemed to seep from the landscape, and everything sharpened in shades of steel and snow, save for the warm lights flooding from the practice rooms and dorms. Kids wandering around in parkas and gloves held hands and threw snowballs and sang show tunes (drama kids). It looked like the cover for an admissions packet. Every single place on campus was an invitation to come inside and get warm and have some hot cocoa. I glanced behind me to where the Writers’ House beckoned at the lane’s end, a great A-frame lodge created just for the writing classes, and one of the many buildings I wished I could convert into my personal living space. And ahead, the five dorms housing all of Islington’s four hundred students waited.
I trudged past the boys’ dorms and up the front steps into Graham. As expected, Ethan was already waiting at the front desk, perched on a stool with Oliver at his side, chatting with Maria. The rest of the waiting area was empty—no one checking their cubby mailboxes or watching TV in the lounge behind the front desk. Everyone was at dinner. My stomach growled again. One of the drawbacks of boarding school’s food schedule: It turned you into a geriatric in a week. Dinner by five? Please.
“Hey boys,” I called.
Maria—my hall’s RA, with red pin-up hair and a penchant for polka dots—looked past Ethan’s shoulder and raised one perfectly painted eyebrow.
“And bombshell babe,” I corrected. “How was the rest of the day?”
“Droll,” Ethan said lethargically. Oliver nudged him.
“Ignore him. He’s channeling angsty art student hardcore today.” Oliver walked over and gave me a hug while Ethan slouched deeper onto his stool. “Poor boy says he’s dying of cabin fever.”
“I can fix that,” I said. “You coming with?”
It was hard to keep my question smooth. Oliver had never, ever come to one of our tea dates. It’s not that he wasn’t allowed, it’s just that . . . it was kind of Ethan’s and my time.
“Nope,” he said. “I need to practice for the concert tomorrow. You coming?”
“Of course she is,” Ethan called from his seat. He sat up a little straighter. “She’s my date.”
“Speaking of, I’m starving.” I looked to Maria. “We all set?”
Normally I’d have to sign out to be off campus, but it was rare that I actually signed anything. Ethan had probably already told Maria we were heading out and filed the necessary paperwork even before I’d left class. They were tight like that.
“Yup,” she said. “Provided you bring me back a scone.”
“Done.” I kissed Ethan on the forehead. “You ready, hot stuff?”
“And eager.”
He slid off the seat and took Oliver’s and my hands, then led us out the front door. The three of us walked together toward the parking lot behind the cafeteria. Somehow it had gotten even darker in the half second we were inside. The streetlamps along the lane came on, casting their fierce white light over everything. A crow, startled by the sudden light, took off with an angry caw down the lane and into the woods by the lake.
“So what’s on the agenda for tonight?” Oliver asked. “We still on the hunt for the man who’ll melt Kaira’s icy heart? Or woman, I guess.”
I nearly skidded on a patch of ice. “Um, homo say what?”
“Smooth,” Ethan said, and I wasn’t certain if he was talking about my horrible comeback or Oliver’s question. They both knew that dating wasn’t in the cards for me. But Oliver seemed to forget that at times. “And no, tonight we’re going to escape the meaningless cycle of art and academic industry.”
“By working on homework,” Oliver said.
Ethan pointed to his boyfriend. “That . . . is accurate. But we’re working off campus, so it doesn’t count.”
“What’s gotten into you today?” I asked, eager to turn the conversation back to him and away from talk of potential boyfriends. “You’re more broody than usual. Did you watch The Breakfast Club again?”
Oliver snorted and flashed me a grin. Ethan’s lack of a laugh told me I’d hit somewhere close to home. Woops.
“I got a C on my American Civ paper,” he muttered.
In Ethan’s world, that was pretty much the equivalent of being shot in the kneecap. It had taken me a few months to understand that his perfectionism wasn’t just a facade—he really did need to be the best at everything he tried. Otherwise, he took it as a personal failure.
“I’ll take some credit for that,” Oliver said, letting go of Ethan’s hand to wrap an arm over his shoulder. Ethan, being a good eight inches shorter than Oliver, leaned in to the embrace. “I feel like I’ve been distracting you too much, now that college apps are over.”